


Once We're Home

by historicaldestiels



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dean and Cas were lovers before the war, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, It's mostly angst - Freeform, M/M, Medic Castiel (Supernatural), Mentions of historical homophobia, Military Castiel (Supernatural), Military Dean Winchester, Set in the Battle of The Bulge, This took me several weeks to write, World War II, dean is injured
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-10-11 05:55:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17441183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/historicaldestiels/pseuds/historicaldestiels
Summary: December 23, 1944.Castiel Novak is a medic in the United States Army in Belgium during the Battle of the Bulge. Dean Winchester is a soldier in the Army. When Dean is found injured and slowly bleeding out, it's a life changing moment for both of them.In a world at war, they'll have to hold tight to the love they have or risk losing it all.





	Once We're Home

**Author's Note:**

> Any resemblance between the characters in this work and any persons, living or dead, is purely  coincidental.   
> 
>  
> 
>  ❖❖❖ 
> 
> So this was originally a school project to write a short story that I might've turned into a whole Destiel fic. Whoops? Anyways, my apologies for any historical inaccuracies. I tried my best guys! Enjoy!
> 
>  
> 
>  

 

 

 _Any resemblance between the characters in this work and any persons, living or dead, is purely  coincidental._    

  

 ❖❖❖ 

  

_December 23, 1944_   

_Ardennes forest, Belgium._

_Battle of the Bulge. “December 16, 1944. The German army surprises the Allies by attacking in the Ardennes mountains of Belgium, France, and Luxembourg. The Battle of the Bulge begins. As the fighting ensues, heavy snowstorms hit the battleground.”_

_“The Battle of the Bulge was the costliest action ever fought by the U.S. Army, which suffered over 100,000 casualties.”_

_-History Channel, Battle of the Bulge article_. 

❖❖❖ 

 

It's been a week since the first shots were fired.  

Castiel’s  company and a one other in the battalion were trekking through the Ardennes, just barely making it on their last C-Rations and some canned food stolen from abandoned Belgian homes. The Jerry's caught them off guard, at the worst time. Food is low, ammo is low, morale is low. It’s bloody cold, and none of the soldiers are properly clothed for this.  Castiel’s  resorted to taking draperies from abandoned houses and shoving them in his boots just to stop frostbite. The snow is suffocating. He’s had to drag several boys out, dead from hypothermia or in the process of dying.   

Cas’s company had just met up with another  American  one when they were jumped by the Nazis. Mid-meal, mid-conversation, mid-everything. Worst bloody time.  Cas  went from shoving a cracker from a C-Ration in his mouth to up and fighting in a matter of a minute.   

Now, men are constantly rushing about, some howling in pain, others barking orders.  Cas  is rushing through the fighting, accompanied by another medic, a thin young man named  Abidan. They’re carrying a stretcher between them,  Cas  in front and Abidan in back. Everywhere  Cas  turns, men are lying on the ground, the ones lucky enough to feel the pain making noises of agony. The others, the ones in shock, sit there, dazed to the world. The ones in shock usually don’t make it. So, they don’t bother with them anymore.   

“Sarge! There’s one-” Abidan’s  alert is cut off by a loud  bang  and the sound of a body falling to the ground. The stretcher dips backward,  Cas  almost going down with it, but he has the sense to drop the stretcher and regain his balance. His heart is pounding in his chest, almost painfully rapid. He whirls, shaky hands holding his pistol out in front of him.  Abidan’s  already dead, unseeing glassy eyes staring up at the sky. The blood turns his shirt a darker green.  

Cas  spots the soldier before the soldier spots him. It’s a German, or a Kraut if you want to be offensive, their uniform coated in mud and snow. The black and silver eagle on the soldier’s chest is the only clean part of the uniform. The soldier’s wide, icy blue eyes meet  Cas’s  darker  blue eyes and it hits him right then and there.   

The man is young. Maybe in his teens. He looks like he’s barely past eighteen, and Cas can’t bring himself to pull the trigger. He can’t. Cas would be taking a man’s life, a life that could be world-changing.   

The Kraut is shouting, rough German barking.  Cas  doesn’t understand, and the phrase is  partially interrupted by mortar blasts and machine gun fire.  _“Schmutziger  Amerikaner!”_. (Dean tells Cas later that this means ‘Dirty American’)  

Cas  can’t make out what the Nazi is pointing at him through the haze of smoke. He swallows thickly, then he sees the sharp glint of light bouncing off metal. Cas  pulls the trigger, almost on an impulse.   

The recoil catches  Cas  off-guard. Cas  stands there, motionless, listening to the young man bark out something that sounds like “verdammt!”   

The soldier comes at him, running as best he can as he holds a hand over his shoulder.  Cas  panics and runs, nearly dropping his pistol but having the sense to shove it in the holster. Men are screaming, some barking orders in accented English or others in the guttural tones of German.  Cas  has to remind himself to focus on where’s he running so he doesn’t trip, but when he turns to look over his head, he actually does trip on someone's leg. He goes flying, face in the muck, and he sits up, spitting. The man he tripped on  shouts  a swear in English. It takes  Cas  a moment to recognize the language change. The voice is familiar.   

“Don’t you dare lay a finger on him!” The man,  American by the uniform, shouts. There’s a loud pop that echoes through the forest.  Cas  watches the German fall to the ground. He realizes later that he felt almost guilty, for watching a death, but then he’d think about the horrible things that man’s country has done and the guilt flees.  

The  American man leans back with a huff, M1 Garand dropping into his lap. “Christ,  Cassy, no hello?” The man’s deep voice is distinctly Southern, like if iced tea with honey had a voice.  

_Cassy._

Cas’s  misty  blue  eyes widen. The recognition hits as soon as he sees those jade green eyes. “Dean."  He says in a breathy wheeze.   

Cas  hasn't seen his lover since 1943.  Dean  left for Europe in early January of that year, their last exchange being a soft, quiet ‘I love you’ amid a torrent of men and their ladies exchanging goodbyes.   

_Dean’s  jade eyes shine with a combination of what  Cas  assumes is excitement and sadness at the same time. There are people everywhere at the train station, most of the men in their tan-green uniform jackets. Loud chatter overwhelms every other sound, even the train pulling in.  Dean’s blabbering on, making it hard for  Cas  to even get a word in edgewise. He would try to interrupt  Dean  if he could even hear himself think._

_“Cassy, are you listening?” Dean  pokes  Cas’s shoulder, knocking  Cas  out of his thoughts._

_“Huh? Sorry, could you repeat that again?”  Cas  meets  Dean’s gaze. The corners of  Dean’s mouth turn up into a smile. If this were any other occasion, Dean’s smile would’ve been infectious. Instead,  Cas  stares at his shoes._    

_Dean  sighs. “I said that’ve  gotta  board soon.”_

_As soon as  Dean  says that, the conductor shouts that the boys have five minutes to board the train to Georgia.  Cas  bites his lip to hold back the tears that blur his vision. He doesn’t want this, all he wants is for  Dean  to stay home. He wants them to go camping again, forget that the war exists and get lost in each other's eyes. He wants  Dean  to stay here, stay in the States, stay with his brother, stay with his lover._

_But the war means that  Dean  has to  go, and it’s too late anyways._

_Dean  takes  Cas in his arms,  Cas  resting his head on  Dean’s chest. He lets the tears go, lets himself cry into  Dean’s shirt. Dean  shushes him, softly, carding his fingers through  Castiel’s  messy dark brown hair. “It’s okay, darlin’, I’ll be back. Maybe even in time for Christmas.”_

_“Promise me you’ll take care of yourself,”  Cas  chokes out between sobs. “Promise you won’t do something foolish and get yourself killed.”_    

_“I promise, baby,” Dean whispers, pressing a kiss to the top of  Cas’s head. “I promise.”_

_“I love you,”  Cas  mumbles, his grip on the back of Dean’s uniform jacket tightening. “I love you.”_

_“I love you too, darlin’.”_

Dean  smiles. His face is sharper, cheekbones more prominent, and his eyes don’t shine with mischief like they used to. A fine, dark stubble lines his cheeks and chin.  Cas  can’t see his hair under the lopsided helmet  Dean  is wearing, but he assumes it's the same short ashy brown. He’s leaning against a tree, legs spread out in front of him.   

Despite all the physical differences,  Cas  can see it’s still his Dean. Same smile.  Same  bright  eyes. Same lively tone, underneath the weariness.   

Cas  practically throws himself onto  Dean, wrapping his arms around his lover’s shoulders and burying his face into the curve of  Dean’s neck.  “Woah, hey-!”  Dean  tenses, and for a moment  Cas  thinks he did something wrong, but before he can get off,  Dean  wraps an arm around his waist.  Dean  smells like gunpowder, oil, and carbolic soap. It’s not a pleasant smell, but  Cas  doesn’t care. Dean’s here, he’s alive, he’s okay.   

Dean’s breathing sounds almost labored, breath coming out too fast and making small clouds puff in the cold February air.   

Cas  sits up, and that’s when he notices the sheen of sweat making  Dean’s face shine in the hazy dusk light. His jaw is set, and he looks like he’s trying not to look like he’s in pain. He’s failing. The ‘smile’  Dean’s forcing twists into a grimace. “Dean? Are you hurt?!”   

“Yep,” Dean  replies. Now that he’s looking,  Cas  can see the crimson spreading along  Dean’s right side, and the  crimson  staining the left arm of  Dean’s shirt. That explains why  Dean  only hugged him with one arm. “Damn Jerry caught me off guard. “   

“Christ,”  Cas  says, breathlessly.  Dean  shrugs.   

“It’s not  tha’ bad. Just get me to an aid station, I’ll be fine.”   

Cas  shoots him a deadly glare, and  Dean  just chuckles drily. “An aid station won’t help you much,”  Cas  mumbles, irritated.  Dean  shrugs, probably giving up in the argument he knows would’ve been coming. He opens his tan medic bag, digging out some bandages, little clothing pins, and some medical tape. He doesn’t look up at  Dean  again. “Keep watch so I can get you all fixed up.”   

Dean  huffs through his nose, using his uninjured arm to prop his Garand on a rock. “No guarantees there. I might just pass out.”   

 “Dean, don’t be so negative.”  Cas  shakes his head, taking his canteen and pouring water over the gunshot wound.  Dean  shivers.   

“Hold this in place.”  Cas  presses a gauze pad onto  Dean’s side. The blood turns the fabric red quicker than  Cas’s comfortable with.  Dean  snorts, and  Cas  stares at him. “What’s so funny to you?”   

“Can’t move my arm. Or feel it. Got cut by a bayonet.”  Dean  shrugs, and  Cas’s jaw drops open. “So, I  kinda  can’t hold the bandage.” If  Dean  can’t feel his arm, the nerves are probably cut, which is something  Cas  can’t fix on the field. In fact, he’ll probably never move the arm again. Cas  grinds his teeth together, huffing through his nose.  He hadn’t thought much about Dean’s bleeding arm, mostly since he’d been able to fire his weapon a few minutes ago. Then again, adrenaline does crazy things, making old women flip over vehicles to save their grandchildren. Perhaps that’s why Dean was able to shoot and not notice the pain? 

“Damn.” He takes some clothing pins and pins the bandage to the torn undershirt.  Improvise, adapt, overcome. “Well, guess this’ll have to do until we get you to the aid station.”   

“If I make it to the aid station,”  Dean  mutters.  Cas  shoots him a look, his patented  ‘shut up before I slap you’. He doesn’t like the way  Dean’s talking- like he’s going to die.  Cas  didn’t come halfway across the world just for  Dean  to die on him. Dean’s going to live, even if  Cas  loses his life in the process.   

“You’re going to make it,”  Cas  sets to work on  Dean’s arm,  gently using the bayonet off Dean’s M1 Garand to tear the surrounding fabric and  pouring water on  the wound. The blood mixes with the water and drips into the snow, tainting the white with crimson. Now that there isn’t a bunch of mud and water in the way,  Cas  can see the wound properly. It’s a gaping cut, and deep too. It’s a wonder  Dean  didn’t bleed out, especially considering how close the cut is to the brachial artery. Cas  grinds his teeth together as he works (a bad habit he’s developed on the field). He can feel  Dean’s eyes on him, hear the air hiss through his teeth when  Cas  presses a gauze pad to his arm. He sees the way  Dean  tenses when he wraps the wound;  Cas  wonders if he’s doing more harm than help. “Sorry,” Cas  whispers.  Dean  shakes his head.   

“What’re you apologizing for? You’re  keepin’ me alive, Cassy.”  Dean’s voice is soft, quiet. “I’d be dead if you weren’t here.”   

Cas  shudders of the thought- the thought that  Dean’s right.  Dean  was well on the way to bleeding out when  Cas  found him, and it was a damned miracle that he hadn’t gone into shock. There’s not time to think on this, and they both know it. In some unspoken agreement,  Cas  helps  Dean  up onto his feet. Dean  grunts with the effort of it, and  Cas  lets him lean on his shoulder. It’s about a four-mile hike through the forest to the trucks.  Cas  isn’t quite sure if  Dean’ll  make it there. They  at least  need to  get to the aid station. At the aid station, there’ll be a proper bed and nurses to help  Dean, and then they can load him on a truck to the hospital. “Ready?”   

Dean  shakes his head. “As I’ll ever be.”   

❖❖❖ 

Dean  practically falls onto the cot. He’s exhausted;  Cas can see it in his eyes, in the slurred way he speaks.  Dean’s been through a lot today alone. “Cassy, can you get mm s’me  wata?”   

“Sure, sweetheart,”  Cas  mumbles, handing  Dean  his canteen.  Dean  chugs it (Cas  has to remind him to sit up) and then collapses back down.  Cas  sits down on the cold dirt floor to the left of  Dean’s cot, watching fresh blood stain the new bandage on the exhausted soldier's arm. He can feel the fatigue tugging at his eyelids, making his mind hazy, but  Cas doesn’t want to sleep. Not until  Dean  does, not until he’s okay. A nurse comes over, chats up  Dean  a little, and sets to work on his side.  Cas  doesn’t bother trying to listen to their conversation until he hears his name come up.   

“That medic sure seems attached to you,” She says. Dean nods.   

“Oh, ‘course he is.  Cassy’s  closer to me than anyone.”   

“Cassy? Isn’t his name  Castiel?”   

“Yes ma’am.  S’aff  Sear’ent  Castiel  Novak. ’M the only one allowed to call ‘im  Cassy. I love ‘im  to death, sure he knows  tha’.”   

“I love you too, Dean,”  Cas  can feel the blood rushing to his cheeks, and  Dean  smiles. It’s a weary smile, but beautiful nonetheless. The nurse doesn’t say anything after that, occasionally casting  Castiel  a condescending and almost disturbed stare. Cas  isn’t surprised, after all, most everyone looks down on  same-sex  relationships, and  homosexuality is treated as a disease. He doesn’t really care what people think of him and  Dean- not now anyways. He’s too drained to care.   If he wasn’t about to fall asleep, maybe he’d be a little more embarrassed. 

It takes about an hour. The nurse  (Cas thinks her name might be Ruby)  gives Dean  a morphine shot, and  Dean  passes out maybe a half hour in.  Cas  bites his nails to stubs as he watches the nurse remove the bullet, dropping it into the little tray with a clink. He stares as she stitches his side closed, wraps a bandage around  Dean’s bare torso to hold the gauze in place. He worries his lip with his teeth when  Ruby  fixes up  Dean’s arm as best as she can. By the time she leaves,  Cas’s stomach has twisted with anxiety. She gives him a sympathetic look, pushing her dark curly hair over her shoulder.   

“Go get some rest. He’ll still be here when you wake up,” Ruby says, shoving her hands in her dress pockets.  Cas  grimaces. Can’t he just keep watch over  Dean  here? Ruby gives him a look that says, ‘that’s not optional’ and  Cas  begrudgingly stands and heads to his assigned barracks.   

The cot is uncomfortable, like sleeping on a stretched sheet, but  Cas  takes whatever he can get that isn’t the ground. It’s cold, and the thin fleece blankets do nothing to help the cold. He wraps his arms around himself, shivering. His thoughts flit between  Dean, his brother  Gabriel, and how cold he is.   

Gabriel  is safe at home, and probably significantly warmer than  Castiel  is right now.  Gabriel  hadn’t been allowed to fight due to a particularly bad case of asthma.  Cas  could say without shame that he wishes he’d been the same. He wonders, almost absentmindedly, how  Gabriel  is coping with Cas  being overseas, and  Michael  having died back in April. The eldest Novak brother had been in the Air Force before the war started, and he managed to evade Death’s swift wings for a few years, but (and Cas learned this the hard way) Death always catches up. If Castiel, who hadn’t been overly close to Michael, fell apart, how did Gabriel react when he got the letter?  Gabriel  has always been a strong man, emotionally anyhow. He’s probably doing just fine, or  Cas  hopes.   

Castiel  hopes for a lot of unreasonable things lately.   

❖❖❖ 

When  Cas  visits  Dean  the next day, Dean’s talking to Sergeant  First-Class Robert  Singer  and sipping coffee. Sergeant  Bobby  is a short, older man who looks like he’s seen some things, with  graying hair  and dark green eyes. Bobby’s from South Dakota, from what  Dean  tells  Cas, and he lived  near Sioux Falls.   

 Dean's expression brightens the moment  Cas  walks in, a huge smile tugging at his cheeks. “Cas!  Mornin’!”   

“Good morning, Dean,”  Cas  replies. Sergeant Singer nods respectfully as his hello, resuming his conversation.   

“So, Sam’s  fightin’ the Japs?” Dean  asks, and the older man nods. Cas’s gaze flits to the bandages on  Dean’s arms- pristine white. He speaks slowly, and  Cas  thinks he might be hopped up on painkillers again. He’s going to have a word with the nurses about that. Morphine is highly addictive,  due to the  opioid  nature of the painkiller,  and if  Dean  keeps being given shots of it, no doubt he’ll end up a junkie.  

“Yep. Philippines, I think. He was in the skirmish at Leyte Gulf back in October.” Sergeant Singer exhales loudly, tossing a wrapped parcel of letters on  Dean’s lap.  Cas  recognizes the handwriting as Sam’s  neat  script. He doesn’t comment, and if anything, he feels a little out of place.  Cas  has never been particularly close to Dean’s brother, who enlisted in the Navy instead of the Army.  Sam’s always just been  Dean’s little brother to  Castiel, nothing more, and  Cas  has no reason to comment on  Sam’s current state.   

 Dean  shakes his head. “God, I don’t know who has it worse, us or him.”   

“Probably  Sam. Trapped in one of those metal deathtraps.”   

“At least he’s not freezing to death,”  Castiel  whispers. Dean  gives his lover a sad, sympathetic glance and takes his hand. Cas  twines his fingers with  Dean’s, familiar yet new. Dean’s hands have more calluses than  Cas  remembers, but they still hold his firm, like he’s scared  Cas  will pull away.   

“Novak  has a point there,” Bobby  says, shoving his hands in his uniform pockets. Someone shouts something about “lazy  Yanks, not  cleanin’ up their bloody messes” in a British accent outside the tent.  Bobby  groans. “I don’t understand why we needed to use the Brits camp. Why can’t we just make our own?” The sergeant walks out to resolve the shouting match brewing outside between a Brit and an  American, grumbling to himself. The silence that settles over the two remaining men is almost palpable. Somehow, Cas  feels like he interrupted an important conversation, but he doesn’t want to say it for fear of upsetting  Dean.  Dean  just sits there, using his pointer finger to trace circles into the top of  Cas’s hand.   

“How’s  Sam?” Cas  whispers, tired of the silence but unable to bring up anything else. Talking of home hurts. Talking of now is even worse. Talking of people or commenting on the weather is about the only thing  Cas  can think of that won’t be upsetting.   

“Alright. He says the Japs are persistent, and the ship food is even worse than the C-Rations. He's made a friend, with this guy named Kevin Tran. Apparently, this Kevin is a good reader and can speak multiple languages. Like Latin, and some ancient nerd thing called Enochian.”    

“That’s good. Sounds like he’s doing better than us.”   

“Yeah. How’s the mess hall food?”   

“Garbage, as usual.”   

Small talk. This is what their conversations have become. They both fall silent,  Dean  staring at some point in the distance and  Cas  at the itchy  wool  that barely passes as blankets. Broken. They’re both broken.  Dean, physically;  Castiel, emotionally. This is what war does, Cas  thinks, watching a few men cough roughly. Leaves men bent and broken.   

❖❖❖ 

The next day, the nurse and Master Sergeant  Fergus "Crowley" MacLeod, a shorter, bulky Scottish-American man came over to break the news to  Dean.  Cas  wasn’t there at the time, busy helping train a few British medics. Seargent MacLeod tells  Dean  that he ‘got the million-dollar wound’ and that he’s going home in a few days. Dean  grumbles to  Cas  about it over a plate of ration meat, collard greens, and potatoes with a little bit of coagulated ‘beef’ gravy. The potatoes taste like cardboard.  “I don’t want to go on another plane. Those things are horrifying.”   

Dean has an irrational fear of planes, and he often complains about them. Now that he’s flying home on one, in the middle of a war, Cas is sure he’s probably terrified beyond belief. 

“Dean, I know you’re in a hospital, but basic table manners still apply,” Cas  scolds  Dean  by stealing a bite of his collard greens, arguably the best thing on these trays. Dean  hands  Cas  the remainder of his food, collard greens and all.  Cas  listens to  Dean  talk while shoving food in his mouth.   

“I have no clue what I’ll do when I get home. I know they’ll probably want to amputate my arm, and I’m fine with  gettin' rid of this useless lump. But since  Sammy’s off fightin’ in the Pacific and you’ll be here, I’ve got jack to do at home.”   

“Mebe  worf  at the auto  shof?” Cas says around a bite of pork.  Dean  gives him a pointed look.   

“Don’t talk with food in your mouth,  Cassy, it’s gross.”  Dean  bites his lip in thought. “Don’t think I’d be able to work on cars anymore. Besides, Rufus won’t let me touch a single car in there. Says I’m too destructive.”   

“You are.”  Cas  shifts how he’s sitting from on the edge of the bed to on  Dean’s thighs.  Dean  pouts playfully.   

“Mean.”   

Dean smiles, wide and infectious. For the first time in what seems like eons, but is really a few months, Castiel smiles too. 

❖❖❖  

Cas  has to  leave for the front lines again in two days, the same day that Dean’s flight leaves. Cas spends the last two nights they have together with Dean in the hospital tent, curled up on Dean’s uninjured right side with his head on Dean’s chest, listening to his steady breaths. The cot is way too small for two people, but if they both lay on their sides, it works. They’re both scared for what’s to come next, but neither wants to say anything. What’s to be said? “Goodbye, I’m sorry you’re stuck here?” “Good luck in the hospitals?” The next day is spent just idly talking. It’s awkward, and Cas hates it, but there’s nothing that’ll fix this – not until the war ends, anyways. The last night, neither of them get any sleep. Dean has Cas’ hand in his, held up near Dean’s chest. It’s a familiar gesture, something they used to do, and Cas nearly wants to cry with the wave of nostalgia that washes over him. But he doesn’t want to cry. Instead, he stares at Dean’s face to memorize it once more and count down the hours until dawn. 

❖❖❖  

Cas  watches as  Dean’s plane leaves from the inside the truck shuttling him back to the front lines. His dog tags bounce on every bump in the road, which is an awful lot. It’s cold, and he suddenly wants nothing more than to be on that plane with  Dean, flying back to the States with a Purple Heart. An unsaid “I love you” dances on his lips, but he saves it for a letter. He’ll be home to  Dean  soon enough. At least, Cas hopes. 

❖❖❖ 

Castiel steps off the plane into the mid-June heat, misty blue eyes scanning the crowd of people for the people awaiting him. For a moment he panics, unable to see anyone, until he hears Gabriel shout “Cas!” to his right. A wide smile bursts onto Cas’ face. He drops his duffel of stuff and bolts over to his brother, who pulls him into a hug. Gabriel’s chocolate brown hair has gotten longer, and his hazel eyes shine. “Gabriel, oh my god, I missed you so much...” 

“I know, little brother,” Gabe says, shoving an almost-crying-with-joy Cas off him. “I missed you too. But I think there’s someone here who missed you more.” 

Cas’ heart lurches when he sees that head of beautiful ashy brown hair shining in the sunlight. Dean’s without his left arm, the sleeve of his unbuttoned Oxford shirt neatly rolled up to where it just barely hangs over what remains of his arm. His smile is as bright as the bleach-white of the tee he’s wearing underneath his Oxford shirt. He opens his arms, and that’s it. Cas practically jumps into Dean’s arms, making Gabe laugh when Dean shouts in surprise and falls backward. Cas is crying tears of pure joy now. He presses his forehead against Dean’s, both laughing like fools. Their lips brush for a moment, subtle enough that if anyone was watching they probably wouldn’t catch it, but it’s enough for Cas to assure him that this isn’t just a dream. 

“I missed you,” Cas whispers. Dean’s eyes shine like stars. 

“I missed you too, darlin’. But it’s over, and we’re okay, and we made it.” 

It’s this moment that will stay in Cas’ mind forever. Why, might you ask? The answer is simple. Because he’s here, in America, safe in Dean’s arms, safe with his brother. 

Because now he’s home, and he’s never going to leave again. 

❖❖❖ 

_Staff Sergeant  Castiel  Novak  comes home in June of 1945 with a Silver Star medal for bravery in battle against the Nazis, after blowing out a German machine gun encampment despite his primary role as a medic. Colonel  Dean  Winchester  comes home in late December of 1944, with a  Purple Heart after being wounded in battle. His arm is successfully amputated in January of 1945. They lived together in a small house in Lawrence, Kansas for most of their lives. Cas  and  Dean  were illegally and informally married in the December of 1947, the ceremony in their home in front of a fire, surrounded by family and close friends, although in their minds, they’d been married for years. They adopt a son, Jack, a few months later._

_Cas  struggles with severe PTSD for years, resulting in years of therapy. He turns  to writing  as therapy  and publishes several bestselling novels and novellas, mostly  about his war experiences. Dean  takes  up a career in the Army as a drill sergeant in  the US Army Reserve Training Center. He works  there until late 1971, transferring to Fort Riley, several hours away from Lawrence._

_Cas  passes away in October of 1971, due to a case of tuberculosis that went without treatment until the last two weeks of Castiel’s life._

_Dean  passes away two years later, from what his family (Sam Winchester and Jack) believe to be a suicide._

_They are buried next to each other in Lawrence, Kansas._

_Despite their passing long before same sex marriage was legalized, Jack filled out the marriage papers for them as soon as he could. Now they’re legally married, but they knew they didn’t need a piece of paper. As long as they knew they were married, that’s all that mattered._

 

  

  


End file.
